Rose With Thorns
by Sweet Scarlett Angel
Summary: AU. "We women achieve what we want from men, not by stamping our feet but, by allowing the men to believe that they, indeed, are in charge. That, is the art of being a woman." - Cecily Howard. With the king in mourning for his wife, she is presented with her chance to shine. Enrapture him, make him fall in love with her. But things never go according to the plan.
1. Prologue

**_I am the diamond you left in the dust_**

 ** _I am the future you lost in the past_**

 ** _Seems like I never compared_**

 ** _Wouldn't notice if I disappeared_**

Cecily Howard, once King Francis's sweetheart, his Queen, but now a Duchess, entered the room on her husband's arm. Despite themselves, the other courtiers in the room all turned to look as the herald announced, "The Duke and Duchess of Burgundy!"

Cecily stumbled, caught at Bash's's arm.

"Head up. I've got you. Head up. Everyone wants to know how you'll react to his new Queen. You can't give them the satisfaction of seeing you weak. You can't."

Cecily nodded; schooled her face to remain unreadable. Years at Court, first at England, then at France, had made her into an experienced courtier. She had an unpenetrable poker face. But she couldn't help the pain that flashed in her eyes as the herald announced, "Their Majesties King Francis, Queen Lola and His Highness the Dauphin Jean-Phillipe"

 ** _You stole the love that I saved for myself_**

 ** _And I watched you give it to somebody else_**

 ** _But these scars no longer I hide_**

 ** _I found the light you shut inside_**

 ** _Couldn't love me if you tried_**

Her former lover, her sovereign Lord walked past her, dandling his new heir in his arms. The child was strong and lusty. Francis's eyes, once so blue and sorrowful, were laughing as they watched the child before flicking up to scan the room. They were shining with pride. With love.

Cecily wanted to smile at the obvious love in his eyes, but one thing stopped her. It wasn't directed at her. The child in His Majesty's arms wasn't Cecily's son. Though it could have been, it wasn't. Instead, Lola walked at Francis de Valois's side and it was her son, Jean Phillipe De Valois, in his strong, protective hold.

Cecily curtsied silently as the Royal Family passed her, but as she rose, she found her eyes catching the King's. Unable to stop herself, she let her thoughts, " _That could be me. It could be our son in your arms, Francis,"_ flood on to her face.

He hesitated, froze there with the child in his arms. Scarcely daring to breathe, Cecily took a single step forward.

It seemed to her that time was standing still, that everyone was watching her with bated breath as they used to, waiting for her to do something. And so she stepped forward, stretching out a hand to the King.

But she'd done the wrong thing. As soon as she moved, the King shook himself. He glanced from Cecily to his son and back again. He tightened one arm around the child and then slipped his free hand around the Queen's waist. He drew her close and whispered something into her ear; something that made her laugh. He squeezed her gently and led her up to the thrones on the dais. He could not have turned his back on Cecily any more clearly.

 ** _Am I still not good enough?_**

 ** _Am I still not worth that much?_**

 ** _I'm sorry for the way my life turned out_**

 ** _Sorry for the smile I'm wearing now_**

 ** _Guess I'm still not good enough_**

Cecily stood there, cheeks flushing scarlet. How could she have been such a fool? How could she have let him bewitch her again? She knew his heart lay with Lola now. She knew. Yet she'd still let him win her; let herself betray Bash with a single look.

Bash. Bash who even now was coming up behind her. Bash, who was wrapping an arm around her, was trying his hardest to comfort her. Squeezing her eyes shut against the tears, she let him hold her; soothe her with his touch. He was so good to her. So very very good. Why couldn't she love him the way she loved the King? Why?

"Lady Burgundy? Your Grace?"

Oh God. The Queen was calling her. Pasting a shaky smile on her face, Cecily approached the dais on wobbly legs.

"Your Majesty?"

"Let's not beat about the bush. I know this must be difficult for you; seeing me at the King's side like this."

The Queen's voice was little more than a whisper. However, Cecily didn't trust hers at all. Nor did she know what to say. Thus, staying silent seemed to be the best course.

After a few moments, the Queen went on, "He does care for you, you know. His Majesty. More than anything, he cares for your children. His children. He knows how hard it is on a child to lose their mother at far too young an age. He would not make your children go through that pain. Not for the world. So he has asked me to offer your husband to host their household at one of his country houses. Do you accept, Lady Burgundy?"

Ceccily hesitated, struggling to contain the resentment that was flaring in her heart. None of this was truly Lola's fault, she reminded herself. Lola had just been a pawn in her family's dynastic games. A pawn who'd fallen hopelessly head over heels in love with the King.

Just as Cecily herself had been.

It wasn't Lola's fault. Nor was it Lola's fault that she'd been lucky enough to have the King offer her marriage and then stand by her. Given how capricious the King could be, that was nothing more than sheer good fortune. Cecily couldn't begrudge her good fortune.

 ** _Does it burn_**

 ** _Knowing I used all the pain?_**

 ** _Does it hurt_**

 ** _Knowing you're fuel to my flame?_**

 ** _Don't look back_**

 ** _Don't need your regrets_**

 ** _Thank God you left my love behind_**

 ** _Couldn't change me if you tried_**

But given how capricious the King was, it could have so easily been Cecily in her place. Cecily could have stayed Cecily, Queen of France. Her children had been princes and princesses. She could have been supervising her children's household as Queen of France, not merely as Duchess of Burgundy. And after everything; everything she'd done for Francis De Valois of France, that was what stung most of all.

After all, hadn't she been the one to pull him out of his gloom? Hadn't she been the one who'd persuaded him to truly throw off the shackles of mourning for his late wife, Queen Mary? Hadn't she been the one who'd persuaded him that life was worth living again?

Of course she had.

"C _ome on, Francis! Come in with me!" she begged him, flashing him his favourite half-smile as she waded into the shallows of the lake, lifting her skirts high to try to keep them somewhat dry._

" _Mary wouldn't like it. She'd say it was beneath me as a King and a widower." Stifling a sigh, Cecily splashed out of the water and went around behind him, knowing he needed careful handling when he got melancholy like this._

" _Mary loved you, Francis. And you loved her. I'm not denying that. But that doesn't mean you have to give up all fun forever. Part of loving someone is wanting them to be happy. Mary would want you to be happy. So come on. Don't just be a King, be a man too. Be a man and play with your sweetheart. Please?"_

" _Are you my sweetheart, Cecily?" His voice sounded worryingly insecure. Cecily chuckled lowly and ruffled his hair._

" _You know I am, Francis. You know I am. Now catch me."_

Yes, Cecily told herself, she had most definitely brought the King back to life in a way that not even his siblings — legitimate and illegitimate —had been able to do. In doing so, she had given France back her King.

And how had she been repaid?

By being treated as only a mistress. She gave him children, and, yet, she was only a Duchess. She should've been Queen. Her children should have been the princes and princesses of France instead of just bastards.

She'd been repaid by having every ambitious family in France flaunt their daughters, their sisters, under his nose. She'd been repaid by having every noble man in France flaunt their female relatives in front of him. By having one of them, Lola, ordinary Lola, push her aside and mount the vacant throne in her place.

 ** _Am I still not good enough?_**

 ** _Am I still not worth that much?_**

 ** _I'm sorry for the way my life turned out_**

 ** _Sorry for the smile I'm wearing now_**

 ** _Guess I'm still not good enough_**

The trouble was, Cecily mused, Lola was so innocent that one couldn't even hate her for it. Especially not when one saw how happy she'd made the King. But it wasn't just the King on her mind.

While King Francis had been mourning for his wife, Cecily had been queen in all but name. She'd brought Princesse Marie back into the fold of the Royal Family. Suddenly, memories of then came to her mind.

How ecstatic Francis had been following the birth of their first child. His delight when each of their children was born. For years she'd been _de facto_ Queen. Now, she was a Duchess. She was content with her life, most times, she was content with her husband and children. But having to take the privilege of raising her children as a gift from her one-time rival still rankled. Couldn't the King at least have had the grace to tell her of the present himself? Surely, after everything she'd done – both for him and the country – he owed her that much? Surely?

"Lady Burgundy?"

To her horror, Cecily suddenly realised that the Queen was still waiting for her answer. Flushing an even deeper shade of red than before, she stuttered out, "I – I – Thank – Thank You, Your Majesty. I am most – most grateful."

Thankfully, at that moment, the herald cried "Her Highness the Princess Marie!"

She knew she shouldn't; knew it would be painful, but she still couldn't stop herself. She watched the twelve year old Princess Marie trott happily towards her father. The little girl dropped into a curtsy as she reached the thrones, but, with her brother now safely ensconced on his stepmother's lap, she was soon swept up into her father's arms.

"Marie, my ruby."

"Papa!" Princess Marie wrapped her arms briefly around her father's neck, but was soon stretching for the woman she called her mother. But this time, it wasn't the Queen who was called.

It was her.

"Mama!"

Cecily couldn't take any more. With a strangled cry, she turned and forced her way out of the room. The tears started falling and nothing she did could hold them back.

 ** _Release your curse_**

 ** _'Cause I know my worth_**

 ** _Those wounds you made are gone_**

 ** _You ain't seen nothing yet_**

 ** _Your love wore thin_**

 ** _And I never win_**

 ** _You want the best_**

 ** _So sorry that's clearly not me_**

 ** _This is all I can be_**

"I brought Marie back to Court. I insisted he visited her and my niece. I brought them back together, he shouldn't have abandoned me! He couldn't have! I should have realised that he wasn't just joking when he first started talking of marriage. If I had, maybe I'd be Queen now! Maybe my children would be his Princes and Princesses! Maybe…If…"

"You couldn't have known. He was so mixed-up in himself. No one knew what he was going to do. You can't blame yourself."

Bash had come after her. He'd pulled her into his arms and was letting her sob into his shoulder. He was soothing her the way she had once soothed the King.

"Yes I can! Yes I can! I didn't fight for him! I was caught up in my children, yet I still did what my cousin didn't; I brought Mary back. I should be Queen!"

"Aye, maybe. But then we'd never have met and that would be a real shame, because I love you, Cecily Howard. You're beautiful and kind and everything a man could want. I love you."

"You're so sweet, Bash," Cecily sniffed. She leaned back and caressed his cheek. She couldn't quite bring herself to return the sentiment, but at least touching his cheek, intimate gesture though it was, didn't feel unnatural. At least she could lean in and return his tender kiss without having to close her eyes and pretend he was the King.

It wasn't perfect. It was far from perfect.

But it was a start.

 ** _Am I still not good enough?_**

 ** _Am I still not worth that much?_**

 ** _I'm sorry for the way my life turned out_**

 ** _Sorry for the smile I'm wearing now_**

 ** _Guess I'm still not good enough_**


	2. Chapter 1

**HiI! This is my Reign story and, I've made some changes in the historical timeline. Starting with, Anne Boleyn was executed in December 1535. Henry VIII married Jane Seymour in January 1536 and Edward VI was born in October 1536. As well as that, I'm also altering the reigns of Henry VIII's children.**

 **Edward VI: 1547-1560**

 **Mary I: 1560**

 **Elizabeth: 1560-1603**

 **Catherine de Medici gave birth to Francis in 1540 and the births of all of Catherine's and Henry's children have been pushed forward four years. So:**

 **Francis: 1540**

 **Elizabeth: 1541**

 **Claude: 1543**

 **Charles: 1546**

* * *

 **April 1559**

"Congratulations, Your Majesty. The Queen has been delivered of a baby boy."

Francis swung round at the midwife's words. As they slowly sank in, his face split in two in the widest grin he thought he might ever have given anyone. "Sweet Jesus be thanked!" he cried, and was about to dash out of the room to go to Mary, when the matronly woman made a move so bold as to put a hand on his arm.

"Your Majesty...the babe was weeks too early. He's hale enough for now, but he's very small. So small I fear the slightest thing might snuff him out like a candle flame. And the Queen had a very hard time of it."

"What are you saying?" The joy had gone from Francis's face now, to be replaced by cold, desperate fear, "Might I lose her? Lose them both?"

"Not both, thank God. The Queen has youth and determination on her side; she will recover. Though I feel I ought to warn Your Majesty, I doubt conceiving another child too swiftly would be good for her."

Francis nodded absently, impatient to be off and visiting his wife and child. No sooner had the midwife taken her hand off his arm than he had pressed a pouch of silver into hers and gone. He bounded up the stairs, reaching Mary's bedchamber in record time. The women in there tidying looked up at his footsteps; curtsied and scurried out at a single hand movement.

Mary, too, lifted her head, smiling tiredly at him, "Francis," she held out the tiniest bundle he had ever seen, beckoning him towards the bed, "Come and meet your son."

He crouched down on the edge of the great bed beside her, took the babe into his arms. He cradled the tiny boy as gently as if he was made of glass, scarcely daring to touch the fair downy head with more than the very tip of his forefinger. When the midwife had said his son was small, he'd scarcely dreamt she meant this delicate. He almost feared that breathing over the boy might bruise him, he seemed that fragile.

"Thank you, my love," he murmured, glancing up just long enough to kiss Mary's temple and push a stray strand of her hair out of her eyes with his lips, "You've done so well."

"What shall we name him?" Mary whispered in return, though she knew the answer almost before it had formed on Francis's lips. After all, Francis had grown up idolizing his father. How could he do anything other than name his eldest son after him?

"Henry, for my father."

Knowing she would not change his mind even if she wanted to, all Mary replied was, "As you wish, Francis. Henry it is. God willing, he'll have a sister named Catherine within the year."

She knew she was making bold; not many men would brook their wives wishing for a second daughter so openly, but allowances had to be made for women in childbed, and she knew it.

He too, said nothing, only quirked an eyebrow and twisted his lips into that crooked half-smile she so loved.

"What my lady wife commands, my lady wife shall get, if she is only willing to help in its attainment," he breathed, leaning up over the babe to kiss her heatedly, bringing a scarlet blush to her cheeks.

"Shame, Francis! You would speak so in front of your son?!" she protested, but her protest had little more than laughter in it and they both knew it. He laughed himself, kissed her one last time as he put Henry back in her arms and then swung himself off the bed, "I'll go and have the bells rung in honor of our son."

* * *

 **May 19, 1560**

Francis knew something was wrong. When he heard Mary's screaming stop, yet failed to hear the piercing cry that heralded his son's entry into the world, he knew something was wrong.

So it was hardly a surprise to see Dr Linacre appear at the door with gravity in his face and sorrow in his eyes.

"Your Majesty."

"The Queen? The Prince?"

"The child was too large. Her Majesty fought valiantly, we all did all we could, but in the end, Nature took its course. We lost them."

It was one thing to know something was wrong, but quite another to hear it, Francis realized then. Though he'd thought he was prepared for the worst, a deep wave of sadness welled up in him at the physician's words. Tears threatened and he was too choked up to speak. Which meant it was Bash who spoke next.

"Both?"

"Both, Your Grace. Your Majesty. I am so sorry."

Francis waved the man away, unable to speak. He didn't need platitudes and condolences. He needed them. His Mary and his Prince. But he couldn't have them. He'd lost them. Both of them.


	3. Chapter 2

**My OC (Cecily) was born in 1541**

* * *

 **March 1561**

"It can't go on like this!" Cecily Howard sighed in her lover's arms, "It's been almost a year, Bash. We can't go on like this! We can't!" She flapped a letter in the Duke's face, "Lady Guise says the Princess Marie is getting more and more impossible. It's the third letter I've had like that this month. She needs her father, Bash. Marie needs her father and France needs it's King!"

"I know. I know. But what do you want me to do about it?" Bash sighed, "Francis is the King, Cecily. If he wants to stay in seclusion, then there's nothing anyone can do."

"You could try, Bash. You're his brother."

"What makes you think I could do a better job than you could?"

"I'm a woman he's only exchanged pleasantries with. I was born in England, even if I have French roots. And I am Dowager Queen. Political reasons, but reasons nonetheless. He won't speak to me the way he would to another man. Particularly not since Mary and I were rivals for the simple fact of our marriages. Please, Bash." Removing herself from his arms so she was able to straddle his hips, she stroked his hair.

"There's no one who knows how to talk to Francis better than you. And think of our children. Think of your own son. Would you want to let him live with the pain of not knowing his father?"

"No! Of course not!" Bash exclaimed, his heart clenching at the thought of no longer being a part of his son's life. Cecily stroked his dark locks around her fingers.

"I thought not. So don't let Marie go through it either. Go and talk Francis out of his seclusion. Please."

"Oh, very well. I'll try. I'll try. But, first, I believe we were in the middle of something, weren't we?" He cheekily asked, eliciting a giggle from the Dowager Queen who promptly pressed a passionate kiss to his lips.

* * *

 **Two hours later**

Extricating himself from Cecily's hold, he sighed, kissed her swiftly, slipped from the room and made his way to King Francis's apartments.

The young page, Donald Parrish was just exiting as he reached them. Bash stopped the boy with a quiet hand on his shoulder.

"How is he, Donald?"

"No better, no worse, My Lord of the Hunt," Donald murmured. Sighing, Bash nodded and stepped past him into the darkened room, trying not to reel back at the musty smell that permeated the air.

"Francis? Your Majesty?"

"I said I didn't want to be disturbed, Bash." Francis's voice was heavy. Bash hesitated, but knew he had to press forward. He owed it to the royal family.

"I know, Francis. I know."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I'm your friend. Because I don't like seeing you hurt. Because I want to help you." Bash stepped forward, laying a daring hand on his brother's shoulder. To his relief, Francis didn't pull away. Instead he simply sighed bitterly.

"You have, Bash. More than you know."

A silence stretched between the two men for a moment. Suddenly, Francis burst out, "Is there a curse on the Valois, Bash, because we won our throne through politics and not through direct inheritance? Are we doomed to lose our Queens forever?"

"No, Francis no! You mustn't think that! You mustn't!"

"Almost every Valois king has lost a Queen to childbirth. My grandfather lost his Claude. My father was the exception, and yet, still he almost my mother with the twins. I lost Mary. And my sons. There must be…"

"It was bad luck, Francis, that's all. Sheer bad luck. Look, I know how you feel. I know it feels like the end of the world; like she's taken your youth with her; like you'll never be happy again. But it'll pass. Trust me, it'll pass."

"How do you…? That's it exactly. How do you know?"

At Francis's words, Bash sighed with relief, releasing a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding. He couldn't let Francis consider the fact that he might have been cursed. He couldn't. Francis was so superstitious. Who knew where he might let the thought lead him?

He said nothing of his thoughts to Francis, of course. All he said was, "I lost Delphine, remember? I lost my Delphine just like you lost the Queen. I felt like you, Francis. I thought I'd never be happy again. But things changed. I stopped grieving like a husband and let myself grieve like the young man I knew I still was. And then I met Kenna. Your wife's friend. I met her and I loved her. She made me happy again, Francis. She made me happy again and now we're married and have our beautiful children. So you're not cursed, Francis. You're not. You'll have a boy to be your Prince yet. You'll have him with a woman you love, I promise. Just because you lost Mary doesn't mean you can't have a boy with a woman you love. You just have to give it time."

"What changed you, Bash? What changed things for you?" Francis's voice was hollow. Bash took a deep breath. He knew he was taking a gamble with his next words, knew Kenna and Cecily both would hate him for this whatever the result, but he had no choice. He'd baited the hook and now he had to reel it in.

"I grieved like a man. I let myself stop being a husband and a father and just became a man. That's what you need to do, Francis. Stop being a King. Stop being Mary's husband. Stop being a father. Just be Francis. Just Francis."

"How? After everything that's happened, Bash, how?"

"Would you like me to show you?"


	4. Chapter 3

It seemed to Francis later that his night at the brothel had been a dream, a dream he longed to recapture but couldn't.

Now that he was out of his rooms, duty overtook him once more. His ministers swarmed about him, begging for his input on this treatise or that law or some proposed bill. Fools. Couldn't they manage without him for just a little bit longer? Didn't they realize he had other matters to attend to?

Like the blonde in Claude's company, for instance. He liked her. He liked her because she reminded him of Mary, in the way that she was so quietly spoken, but thankfully she wasn't like Mary to look at. No. She was more like an angel to look at. Not like Mary at all, while Mary had been his angel, she'd been dark in her coloring, a contrast to this girl. Where she came from royalty, this girl was from high nobility. If it hadn't been for the differences in their colorings, however, they would have been able to pass as sisters. They had the same slender figure, the same alluring eyes, the same mass of hair.

Of course he wouldn't lie with this girl. No. Mary had barely been dead for a year. It would be treading on her memory. So he couldn't sleep with her. And he wouldn't. But he would enjoy her company. Mary wouldn't begrudge him that, would she?

Of course she wouldn't. After all, it wasn't as if he was in love with this girl, not the way he'd been in love with her. No. he just wanted to enjoy the girl's company a little, as friends. That was nothing wrong in that, was there?

* * *

Kenna knew her brother-in-law was infatuated with Cecily Howard. She knew he was also trying to assuage his conscience because of his grief for Mary, but she knew his desires would win out in the end and he'd start courting the English-born French woman.

He didn't say anything. Of course not. But he didn't have to. The way his eyes kept lingering on the girl was enough. She was just waiting for him to ask her name.

So why, when the question finally came, did it feel like something momentous was about to happen? As though it was such a threat to her place at his side as his hostess?

It came on a quiet, Sunday evening as he walked with Bash and her along the gardens.

"Bash. That blonde girl walking with Lola and Greer. What's her name?"

"Cecily, Cecily Howard, the Dowager Queen of England," Bash choked out the name, desperately trying to hide the fact that the syllables were leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

"And why is England's Dowager Queen in my court, brother?"

"Her mother was French and while she was born and grew in England, supposedly, the memories of her husband were too much for her to bear, so she ran to her maternal roots." He had to force his face to remain blank as he watched his brother as he walked over to Cecily and bent to whisper something in her ear.

A look like the one Francis had been giving Cecily could only mean so many things and Bash could only hope Cecily would come out of her affair with the King relatively unharmed.


	5. Chapter 4

The weeks passed and Cecily found herself spending more and more time with the King. He called to take her riding on an almost daily basis. They dined together; played cards in the evenings. It built up gradually, but one day, Cecily realized that she was spending more time with the King than anyone else was; even his sister and brother-in-law, the Duke and Duchess of Bordeaux.

Which meant that it was only a matter of time before her family found out. Her cousins, Margaret and George had known from the beginning, of course, but now her uncles realized that Cecily was no longer the broken, grieving widow she'd been when she first arrived in France.

One morning, they called her to her uncle Richard's rooms.

"Richard, she has an ability to blind a man's thoughts. That is no small skill. It's brought down empires." She overheard her uncle Frederick saying.

"That's the problem. Cecily's too flighty with her affections and I'm not sure she cares about empires."

After that line, she pushed open the doors. She didn't need to hear how her uncles thought of her as nothing more than a silly girl to bear the king sons. In England, she'd proven to all the nobles and her husband that she was more than a glorified baby breeder. She would not be intimidated by men due to the amount of riches they owned. As Queen, she had power and used it by her own mind. It would be her uncles' loss if they couldn't see that.

"Uncles," Cecily curtsied. They nodded in acknowledgement.

"Cecily."

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes. It appears you've been spending quite some time with the King recently."

Cecily shrugged, "Is it not as I did in England during my marriage? His Majesty asks for me and I obey."

"You did well for yourself in England in the role you were placed in, but now you are in France. You do as you should, by obeying him. How far has he taken things? I know he is still grieving the loss of the Queen, but King or not, he is a man and many a lesser man takes a mistress in such circumstances."

"Not far, Sir. I feel his passion for me is dissipating. But I am not ready for him to take issues further yet."

"Not ready?" Her father's voice sharpened, "What do you mean, you are not ready?"

"I was born a daughter of a duke and became a Queen, I will not welcome anyone with less than clear and pure intentions into my bed. His Majesty does not look to me for everything yet. I need him to do that before I am ready."

"Look to you for everything! Good God, girl, are you playing for the throne?!"

Cecily hesitated. Truth was, though she might have been at first, now she genuinely just wanted to help the King through his grief of Queen Mary. She thought Mary would have wanted her to. So, in order to honor her memory, she had humored the King, but in time, formed her own affections for him.

The last few weeks in his company had been more wonderful than Cecily had ever dared hope they would be. But she couldn't tell the men in front of her that. They expected more of her. Closing her eyes and steeling her heart against the pang of guilt that stabbed at her, she kept her voice as steady as she could as she answered, "Not necessarily the throne, Uncle, but France has no Queen, so I do not see why I should not be at His Majesty's side just as well as any other woman."

"Nor do I," he murmured, then sighed, "Very well, Cecily. You seem to be handling the matter well enough for the moment. His Majesty seems happy enough with you, so I do not see any reason to change things for now, but if we're no further forward soon, things may be different. Is that clear?"

"As crystal is," Cecily assured him, summoning a confidence she did not feel.

"Very well, you may go, Cecily."

Cecily curtsied, then ran out of the room and changed her gown before riding to the river to meet the King.

* * *

He was ahead of her and turned at the sound of her hoof beats.

"Cecily," he greeted, attempting to smile at the sight of her, but not quite managing it.

Groaning inwardly as the realization that he was in one of his more somber moods dawned on her, Cecily drew rein and slid from the saddle.

"Francis!" She caught his hand and tugged him towards the river with her, "Come in with me."

"What?!" He started. Cecily nodded.

"It's May. Surely it'll be cold."

"Cold but not too cold. Oh come on, Francis Please! Come in with me!" she begged him, flashing him his favorite half-smile as she waded into the shallows of the lake, lifting her skirts high to try to keep them somewhat dry.

"Mary wouldn't like it. She'd say it was beneath me as a King and a widower."

Stifling a sigh, Cecily splashed out of the water and went around behind him, knowing he needed careful handling when he got melancholic like this.

"Mary loved you, Francis And you loved her. I'm not denying that. But that doesn't mean you have to give up all fun forever. Part of loving someone is wanting them to be happy. Mary would want you to be happy. So come on. Don't just be a King, be a man too. Be a man and play with your sweetheart. Please?"

"Are you my sweetheart, Cecily?" His voice sounded worryingly insecure. Cecily just wanted to kiss the smile back on to his face, but forced herself to chuckle lowly, caress his shoulder and then reach up and ruffle his hair.

"You know I am, Francis. You know I am. Now catch me."

Risking everything, she backed teasingly away from him and raced back into the shallows. To her delight, he chased after her. Spinning around, she scooped up a handful of water and flicked it in his direction.

There was a moment of stunned silence and then she was rewarded with the sound of something she hadn't heard before. The great bellow of his laughter.

"Oh, Cecily, you are the best girl in France! Oh that I could have you at my side every day!"

Cecily heart skipped a beat. If he was saying stuff like that, then she ruled him as completely as she could ever hope to, given that she could never be his anointed Queen, not with her notorious past. She swung round to him.

"Oh, but Francis you can. You are the King. You have only to command and I would have to obey."

"But I don't want to command. I want you to come to me of your own free will," he whispered.

Cecily pretended to hesitate, but her heart was singing and it seemed natural to her to say, "My heart follows my desire and my desire is for you."

It seemed natural to her let him sweep her up and canter her back to the palace in his arms, abandoning her horse there by the riverbed; to enter his rooms beside him as though her rightful place was on his arm; natural to yield her body to him in one heated event of passion.

* * *

 **September 1562**

Claude greeted Cecily almost as warmly as her uncles had done after her return to Court. Within hours, she had regained her footing with Kenna, Lola, Greer and Claude as though she had never been away or captured the eye of the King. Which meant it was only natural that she should be standing at the Princess's side when, as the group headed outside to hawk in the gardens, they crossed paths with another woman.

The woman was willowy and hazel-eyed, with a mass of auburn curls tumbling down her back. She wore an expensive gown of beeline yellow silk and carried herself nobly. Only the hint of arrogance in her eyes and the scarcity of ladies trailing behind her betrayed the fact that she wasn't as high ranking as Lola or Kenna and that she was not truly highborn.

Claude's entire body tautened. "Mistress Talbot," she acknowledged icily.

There was a fraction's silence and then Mistress Talbot dipped into the merest hint of a curtsy, "Your Highness."

Her head was still up; her eyes still locked with the Princess's. There was no submission or servility anywhere in her posture or indeed in her demeanor at all.

She turned to Cecily and curtsied lower. "Your Majesty." Even if her curtsy was lower, her head was still up and her eyes locked with Cecily's, staring daringly back. The two women stared one another down for a few more seconds before Mistress Talbot snapped her fingers.

"Come," She instructed her ladies, sweeping past the King's sister and former mistress as though she owned the palace.

Blushing, the ladies swept down to the floor in respect for both women's higher rank and then followed. Cecily glanced between the rapidly vanishing quintet and their fuming mistress, then, correctly supposing she wasn't going to be able to ask Mary, dropped back to talk to Isabel, her cousin.

"Who was that?"

"That was Eleanor 'Elle' Talbot," Kenna hissed, spitting out the nickname as though it were blasphemy, "She replaced you in the King's affections after you ran across the sea, as it turns out."

Cecily laughed, despite the situation. "I didn't run. The King dismissed me, so I decided some English country air would do me good. Anyways, you say Mistress Tabot is in His Majesty's mistress? She doesn't appear the type of girl who would attract him," Cecily asked, a hint of question in her voice. Lola almost growled

"And she wasn't. Mistress Talbot is the King's latest paramour. After you left, she arrived at court and caught his eye. She's so different from you, I'm not surprised." Lola sighed. "Now, I'm not saying it's not within His Majesty's rights to take a mistress, but honestly, did it have to be Mistress Talbot? She's become insufferable. Three months she's been at his side. A mere three months and she already thinks herself a Queen. Just because she's lucky enough to have been granted a few ladies of her own, she thinks we should all be bending the knee to her."

" _Chienne_ ," Cecily muttered furiously. "Just because she caught Francis's eye, it doesn't mean she is Queen. The title must be earned and that girl should count her lucky stars she got Francis to show an interest in her. At the moment, she may act like a Queen, and be the closest thing to one the Court and the country will have. But with that attitude of hers, it will not last. And, once it gets out that Francis has taken yet another mistress, countries and lords will start pushing their daughters and sisters into his eyes. Mark my words, before five years have gone past, Francis will be married and with children on the crib."


	6. Chapter 5

One month later

"You play well," Francis observed. Cecily had won the first round.

"You're letting me win," Cecily accused, pouting childishly.

Francis was guilty as charged. Although he hated losing in all cases – games included – he adored her smile and her laugh when she came out victorious from a game. Her smile was brighter than the candles and her laugh sweeter than even the sweetest of honey.

"Of course I'm not," Francis insisted. For many times that night, he had, had the winning hand, and for many times that night, he had pretended he had not. "I despise being beaten so brutally at cards."

Cecily narrowed her eyes at him playfully. "You're mocking me."

He raised his hands upwards in defense, an amused smirk on his lips. "I would never."

She picked up a card from the deck and threw it at him in jest. It hit him on the chest. Cecily smirked with satisfaction and crossed her slim arms victoriously.

"Ah, ah," Francis scolded, "don't throw the cards. They were given to me as a gift from my late father, King Henry II." Cecily's face fell. "Which is all the more reason to throw them all!"

Cecily laughed as the King tossed his hand of cards behind him. Cecily grabbed the deck and threw them upwards, allowing them to fall to the ground like a shower of raindrops. She stood up and twirled around.

Cecily picked up one of the cards that was on the floor. It was a queen of hearts, although it was ripped. The top part – where the head ought to have been – had been torn off due to Cecily's twirling. It looked like a decapitated woman; a headless queen.

"I've beheaded the queen," she said solemnly, handing the King the two pieces. "What shall be my punishment?"

He took the ripped paper, although he did not let go of her hand. The King stood up and stepped closer to Cecily, who was smiling suggestively and pulling him away from the pile of destroyed cards.

Cecily could see he was amused with her. She anticipated his next move as a child would wish for sweets.

Francis crashed his lips onto hers in a moment of hot, fiery passion. His kiss was full of fire and experience that spoke of many lovers. Cecily savored the taste of his mouth like chocolate, sneaking her arms around his neck.

He pulled up the hem of her dress, exposing her leg to the warm, summer air. Cecily wanted him to go further, but she could almost hear her mother's voice in her head telling her to stop the inevitable encounter.

"I cannot," she said, pulling away from the kiss.

Francis nodded, panting as heavily as Cecily was. "I understand."

"It is not that I don't… want to," she awkwardly stated. "As I do, I just…"

"I understand," the King assured her, giving her a reassuring and kind smile. "I would not force you to go any further, my lovely Cecily."

She smiled gratefully. "Thank you."

"I should like to give you a present." Cecily perked up at the mention of 'present'. The King scoured through his drawer for a golden ring. Once he found it, he walked back over to Cecily and gave her the ring, gently placing it into her hand. "Open it."

Smiling, she found a portrait of Francis inside. "Thank you, your majesty."

He kissed her forehead tenderly. "I hope you wear it always."

* * *

Francis smirked into Cecily's lovely, petite neck as he left a trail of kisses from behind her ear to her collarbone. She giggled at the sweet sensation of the King's warm kisses. There was nothing sweeter than his love.

He traced the tip of finger across her neck lightly. Cecily wondered whether his skin had been touching hers at all. He was very good at arousing her; she had never wanted a man more in her life.

Suddenly, the King was on top of her. Cecily knew what was going on, but she couldn't say no. She felt a strange desire, a wanting.

Francis's manhood pressed against her crotch. She let out a surprised gasp, causing Francis to smirk.

It was nothing but improper for them to in such a position, but they hadn't cared months before, why should she care now? She couldn't say no to the King!

But then he might lose interest in her, and the her uncles would be displeased with her. She couldn't sacrifice everything they had worked for, for the sake of pleasure!

"Francis, we..."

His hand slid up her thigh, pushing up her dress.

"I, we... Francis!"

He inserted a finger inside of her, exploring her insides. She moaned with indescribable pleasure. His experience as a lover was undeniable by the way he pleasured her. Of course, he had been married, not to mention that he had taken lovers before his marriage.

She wondered if he'd take a mistress when they were married. Suddenly, she remembered Edward and their passionate, but loveless marriage. They'd been married when she was only twelve and he was seventeen, yet somehow, years later, they managed to form a passionate union, even if it lacked in love. They had a passionate, honest relationship. But, more importantly, they had trust in their relationship and faithfulness on both ends.

Cecily wrapped her legs around the King's torso as he did miraculous things to her. She was sure her groans and moans could be heard by the majority of the castle.

She found herself wanting him. It was wrong, she ought to tell him to stop, but pleasure forbade her from doing so.


End file.
